


Laying Down On The Job

by kalijean



Series: Arch to the Sky [63]
Category: due South
Genre: Arch to the Sky, Chicago (1998), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-19
Updated: 2011-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-23 21:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalijean/pseuds/kalijean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July 1998: One of the many ways in which Turnbull is decidedly different from Benton Fraser.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laying Down On The Job

Turnbull had never noticed the drowse.

It was all right. Thatcher was out, there was nobody but himself to worry about the consulate, and that was locked up tight. Turnbull wasn't above skiving a little on the job as long as no one found out. Usually that involved cooking or curling.

He'd spent quite a bit of the previous evening in a green Buick Riveria, later than he usually preferred; so today, his harmless skiving seemed to involve snoring lightly on his desk.

It was a good sleep; head rested on his arms. No drooling. It was a good dream, too. There was curling. Curling and his sister and perhaps Detective Vecchio, though he'd never acknowledge that in his waking mind.

The soft buzzing sound of his snores filled the empty consulate.

Peace shattered with a knocking on the front door and a flail, Turnbull's startle sending the phone and a pen cup sailing across the floor.

He couldn't remember going to sleep and barely remembered where and who he was, which was why he left the scatter where it was to stagger to answer the door. He fumbled to unlock it, scrambling it open.

The outside breeze wafted the post-it note stuck to his face. Turnbull blinked sleepily, actually coming awake.

Ray Vecchio stared back with a bemused little smile.

Turnbull gaped, turning immediately red. "I-- Hm, I'm terribly sorry, Detective, I failed to notice the time..." He stepped politely aside, holding the door open and gesturing Ray in.

Ray didn't move. His eyebrows went up and he bobbed his head to the side, flicking a glance to the mess on the floor and back to Renfield's red and probably fabric-dented face. His tone was playful suspicion, Renfield only noting the playful from having extensive experience with the man. "...you laying down on the job, Renny?"

Placing the free hand to his chest, Turnbull had the good grace to sputter, objecting without actually denying it. " _Detective_ , I will have you know that I most certainly was _not_ laying down--"

Ray stepped forward, notching the post-it between two fingers and plucking it off to wave gracefully in Turnbull's face. He leaned forward a bit, squinting. "You were. You were sleeping on the clock. Well, I'll be..."

Turnbull had resisted the insistent urge to jerk away from that hand near his face, merely watching the fingers carefully. He opened his mouth to object and then shut it again, his look some mix between frustrated at Ray pushing the issue and shy embarrassment.

"You'll be... what, Detective?"

"It's an expression, Turnbull. You and Benny, pal." Ray shook his head, laughing, and breezed by Turnbull into the consulate. Crouching to gather the scattered pencils without hesitation. "Well. Never woulda caught _him_ nappin' on the job, so maybe I shouldn't say that."

Turnbull found it exceedingly odd that Ray seemed more pleased to say that than anything else. Even so, he cleared his throat and finally remembered to let the door fall shut behind Ray. "You have my sincerest apologies, Detective. It was not intentional." He hurried over to pick the phone off the floor and put it back together.

"Don't have to apologize to me, Ren. Maybe the Queen. Not me. Me? I figure the Queen owes you a coupla paid naps for all the days you spent standin' out there holdin' the line against marauding spitballers or deranged door-to-door glacier salesmen or whatever it is they think they gotta stick you out there for. Good for you, pal." Pencils in their case, Ray plonked it on the desk and stuck the post-it there, too.

Turnbull couldn't quite stifle a grin, but he was looking at the floor, suitably embarrassed.

Ray clapped him on the shoulder. "C'mon, lemme give you a ride home. 'less the desk is more comfortable than that matchbox you call an apartment. Wouldn't be surprised if you couldn't fit a bed in there. You probably sleep in the oven or something. Or the freezer. Bet it reminds you of home, huh?"

Fitting his stetson to his head, Turnbull only smiled shyly in reply, moving to hold the door open for Ray again.


End file.
